Where We Fell

  Where We Fell

  by Amber L. Johnson

  Copyright 2013

  Amber L. Johnson

  Cover design by

  Annie Rockwell

  Cover images courtesy of

  Shutterstock

  Ebook design by

  Mountain Media

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.

  For my cousin, Jessica.

  You may not be able to give blood anymore, but you can inspire others to live life to the fullest—just as you do.

  1.

  IT’S BARELY NINE O’CLOCK in the morning and the temperature has already hit eighty degrees in Georgia. The doctor’s office is cold, a stark contrast to the temperature outside. It’s almost summer, but the raised flesh on my arms tells me that pools and beach volleyball may not be in my future.

  My future.

  It’s a ball being juggled in the air, suspended before it goes one of two ways: caught in the hand, or dropped to the floor.

  I’d hoped that the summer would consist of me at the lake with my best friend Terrence, pretending not to stare at the private school girls in their bikinis. Terrence because he’s got a girlfriend, and me because I’m a little shy.

  Not for much longer, though.

  My mother’s gaze keeps scanning the floor and then the door, waiting for some sort of answer. I hope there’s none to give, but the rock-hard dread filling the pit of my stomach tells me there has to be something. Either way, the past few weeks have been torture and whatever the doctor says, at least I’ll finally know.

  If I stare hard enough, I can almost make out where the air conditioning hits my legs, making the hair dance a little against my chilled skin. I tap my foot on the cold metal below me, the paper on the exam table crinkling beneath me as I close my eyes and lean back to stare at the ceiling. Without even thinking about it, my left hand slips over my sternum and into the opening in the medical gown where I have my right arm raised. My forefinger caresses the large lump in my armpit and I close my eyes, thinking back to where it all started.

  The track at school. Halfway through my fourth turn. The pain dropped me to my knees and I curled up, gasping for breath, sweat clouding my vision while people yelled my name frantically. I couldn’t see anything except the gray sky above and the curtain of hair in my eyes. Everything blurry. Everything just out of reach from the pain.

  And then Coach Mann called my name right next to my ear and I looked up to see him mouthing ‘Oliver’ before the world went black.

  Everyone thought I had a virus after I found the swollen lymph node beneath my arm. My mom held onto that even after the ones in my throat grew larger. She didn’t want to come to terms with it. She maintained it was a virus. Still. Just a fever. Just the chills.

  Just a little virus, that’s all.

  I can hear her lean forward in her chair and I imagine her perfectly brushed hair falling out of place. When she sighs and leans back, I know she’s fixed it. She’s too controlled to let that happen before the doctor arrives.

  When he does, I sit up and listen as he tells us both what the diagnosis is.

  The room is silent for a good minute and a half before my mother begins to cry. But I don’t. Because Stella Bishop hasn’t cried in front of me in more than a decade. And I’m more interested in her reaction than what is actually going on at the moment.

  ***

  She tells me that I don’t have to go to school, but I remind her that I only have a few days left before graduation and that I’d like to finish out my senior year like nothing has happened.

  “Just give me this one thing,” I ask nicely, but she knows it’s not really a question.

  No one even asks where I’ve been. They’re too self-absorbed and on the edge of freedom to care about anything but making it through these last few days. In Environmental Science, I take my usual seat and pretend to listen to the girl sitting next to me tell a story about what she’s planning to do after graduation. I nod politely and smile at the right times. Our teacher watches us all with a knowing look on his face, his gaze searching the classroom behind his no-rim glasses. He wears short sleeve button-down shirts and pleated khakis every day. He plays with the wedding ring on his left finger when he’s bored. And I wonder what it’s like to have a job like this and a family at home that are excited to see you when you walk through the front door. I wonder whether or not I’ll ever know that for myself one day – having a family of my own . . .

  He clears his throat and tosses an erasable marker into the air, before clumsily catching it and giving a wry grin. His dark hair is curling across his sweaty forehead as he addresses us loudly. “Did you enjoy this class? I should have set up an online survey or something, but I think your test scores will suffice on whether or not I did a good job.” No one else laughs, but I chuckle, because he’s trying.

  “Look,” he continues, “unless you’re planning to be science teachers like me, or be an engineer or something; I know you only took this class because it’s required. So, to the majority of you . . . forget everything you were just taught.” His smile grows ever wider. “I figure it won’t hurt as much if I give you permission.”

  When the bell rings, I wait for everyone around me to clear the door before standing to my feet. He’s cleaning the board, his back to me as I approach. I clear my throat and knock on his desk, waiting for him to turn around. When he does, his eyes grow wide and then squint smaller as he regards me with a smile.

  “Mr. Bishop.”

  “Mr. Garrett? I just wanted to thank you for making this class fun. I actually enjoyed it.” He seems pleased and I’m glad I’ve left him with some positive parting words, wondering if it will be the last time I see him. There’s no emotion attached to that thought. No tightening of my chest. No tears in my eyes. When I wander the hall down to my locker for the last time, I wonder if it will hit me then. But I really, really doubt it.

  ***

  Going home after school seems like the obvious thing to do. But the silence there would be too heavy. So I head to The Main Street Diner and sit in the back corner booth, staring out at the street to my left. The glass is impeccably clean, so I catch glimpses of my reflection every time a dark car passes by. The waitress asks for my order and I don’t look at her, rattling off my usual selection and pressing my fists between my knees, securing my chest against the solidity of the table top. I wonder how many more times I can order a BLT here. If the walls will be sticky long after I’m gone. I try my hardest to get a reaction from myself, but nothing comes. More than anything, I just want to go home, get lost in a game on my PlayStation, and pretend nothing happened at all.

  A clink on the table alerts me to my food and I raise my head, reaching up to push my hair out of my face.

  “Shit. Mother of . . . shit.”

  Hot coffee seeps across my sandwich and onto the Formica. I look up as the waitress scrambles to find a rag, frantically pushing my plate back with one hand and trying to stop the river of liquid that’s pooling on the table.

  “I’m so sorry,” she sighs, brushing her dark hair away from her face and squeezing her eyes shut before I can see their color. “I swear I’m not clumsy. I’m just . . . really not good at this job.” She laughs and shakes her head a little, scooping the wet towels into her hand and holding them out at arm’s length, making a face as she deposits them on her tray that she’d dropped onto th
e booth across from me. She wipes her hands on her white apron and shrugs at the two coffee handprints that are now on her thighs. “I definitely ruined your sandwich. So, I’ll go put in an order for a new one.”

  I look her over, noting I’ve never seen her in the diner before. Perry, Georgia isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, but I come to this diner at least twice a week. Her hazel eyes meet mine and I give a half-hearted smile. Something in the back of my mind is nagging me that this girl feels familiar, but I don’t immediately recognize her.

  “You don’t have to. I wasn’t really all that hungry anyway. I ordered more out of habit than anything else.”

  Her shoulders visibly relax and she leans on the end of the table, making eye contact again. “We have the best pie. Ever. I’ll get you a piece of that. On me. I made about three dollars in tips today, so I can cover it.” She’s just said she’s poor but she’s smiling. “You’re not allergic to nuts or whatever, right? Because I swear the peanut butter pie is made by angels and kissed by Jesus before it’s plated.”

  I actually laugh. “No. No allergies.”

  “Great. I’d hate to be responsible for the death of someone so damn cute.”

  If only she knew . . .

  She’s back in two minutes with a plate and two forks. With a heavy sigh, she takes her apron off and plants herself across from me in the booth. She slips her feet underneath her butt, leaning forward to jam her fork in the tip of the pie. “You said you weren’t all that hungry, so I figured I’d help you eat it. Since I’m buying and all.”

  The only other waitress on duty is wiping down the main counter lazily, and I turn around in the booth to scour the restaurant with my gaze. There’s only one other person at a table, and he’s shoveling a triple stack burger into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in five years.

  “I’m Hannah, by the way.” Her voice pulls my attention back to her as she scoops a forkful of pie into her mouth.

  “Oliver.”

  “Nice to meet you, Oliver.” She waves at the other waitress. “Linda, can we get two waters over here?”

  “What’s wrong? Your feet broken?” The blonde woman lifts an eyebrow.

  “I’m on break.” Hannah lifts her fork for emphasis. She chuckles as Linda drops off the water and taps her on the head. “I get a fifteen minute break twice a day! It’s the law.”

  I watch as she eats another bite. “You should get in on this.” She shoves the plate at me. “I have absolutely no control whatsoever. I’ll eat the entire thing and I wasn’t joking when I said I made three dollars today. I can’t buy you another piece.”

  “I have money. You don’t have to buy me pie.”

  “But I cost you four slices of perfectly cooked bacon. Jordy Peterson doesn’t take lightly to an affront like that. He won’t say anything, but you’ll know he’s pissed off.”

  I can picture the broad shouldered, dark-haired, silent line cook that she’s talking about and I shake my head. “Jordy’s a mute. I don’t think he can say anything.”

  She narrows her eyes and pulls the plate back to herself. “Huh. I just thought he was tongue tied by my ravishing beauty.” Licking the corner of her fork, she smiles. “I’m just kidding. I know Jordy. We graduated together.”

  “I thought you looked kind of familiar.”

  Hannah tilts her head. “Oh. Do you watch porn? Because a lot of people ask if they know me, and then when they find out from where, they’re all, ‘oh, shiiiiiiiiiiiit.’”

  My neck grows hot and I shake my head furiously. “No. That’s not . . . I just mean I’m graduating this weekend. So we probably went to the high school at the same time.”

  “Nah, you’re right. I dyed my hair when I went to college. I do look different.” She’s in a full laugh now, covering her mouth. “You’re fun to mess with, you know that? So, how old are you? Seventeen?”

  “Eighteen. My birthday’s coming up, though.”

  Her eyes soften. “Eighteen’s a great age. But nineteen is when things really start to change. Stay young while you can, because getting older isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Oliver . . .”

  “Bishop.”

  ”Not a lot of Bishops in this town.” She looks like she’s thinking hard. “Your dad wouldn’t happen to wear a badge and operate a speed gun, would he?”

  “Actually . . .”

  “Huh. Your dad is State Patrol? I’m pretty sure he pulled me over, like the week after I got my license, driving home from a party. I cried my way out of it. He’s a softie. But don’t repeat that or anything. I bet making friends is hard when your dad could pull one of them over at any minute.”

  If she only knew the half of it. It’s one of the reasons I only hang out with Terrence.

  She takes a hard look at my face and squints her eyes. “You don’t look much like him, you know.”

  “I’m adopted.”

  She leans back in the booth and looks me over once. “I swear to god, I’m not gonna put my foot in my mouth one of these days. I don’t know when, but it will happen.”

  “I hope I get to see it.”

  We smile at one another for what feels like an eternity. The faint sound of an alarm goes off and Hannah rises to her feet. “My break is over. Thanks for . . . letting me eat your pie.” She leans over and grabs her apron, tying it loosely around her middle. “Ugh. The Freshman Fifteen is no joke, Oliver. I hope you like thick chicks, because your freshman year of college, you’ll be surrounded by them.”

  The only place I can guess she’s carrying this so-called extra fifteen pounds is in her chest. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  Securing her ponytail, she regards me seriously. “Do you know which school you’re going to in August?”

  I do. But now I’m not sure if I’ll make it. “Macon State.”

  “Me, too. Small world, Oliver Bishop. I do hope you’ll come by for some bacon and pie another day.” Her fingers fidget with her menu pad and she tears a piece of paper off, crumpling it in her fist. “No charge for food you don’t eat.”

  I leave her ten dollars.

  She was entertaining, even though she can’t wait tables for shit.

  2.

  I GRADUATE ON SATURDAY, a dark blue graduation gown covering my body, my hat pulled taut over my hair. And for the first time, I wonder if I’ll have hair at this time next year. If, when it grows back, it will still be the same light brown as my mom’s. Even though she dyes it, it makes me feel good because we look like we’re from the same family. Sometimes I wish I had her green eyes instead of my blue, so we’d match even more.

  The only pomp and circumstance is in the form of the song playing as I step across the stage and accept my diploma. I watch every member of my class do the same to scattered applause from the small crowd. I listen as our valedictorian, Meaghan, says things about how bright our futures are. Her sleek, blonde hair is pulled back into a braid, and strands of wayward pieces become disconnected as the wind picks up around us. Her graduation gown whips against her legs and she raises her voice to speak louder. I lift my gaze to the sky and watch thick clouds gather over the crowd, noting the exact moment the first raindrop falls.

  My father, in full gear, is the first to stand and direct people to cover. My mom runs with her program above her head, as if the flimsy school-bought paper will protect her from the torrential downpour. The bleachers and stage tremble beneath the weight of stampeding graduates, each of them scrambling for dry cover. But I sit, my hands folded over my knees, holding my now soaking wet diploma, and close my eyes. With my face turned upward, I sit in the rain.

  ***

  “You could get pneumonia,” my mother snaps at me as we drive through the downpour.

  “Yeah. That’s the worst that could happen, Mom. Pneumonia.”

  She goes quiet and I see my father’s eyes in the rearview as he pulls into the diner’s parking lot. “To-go, or . . .”

  “We can go in.” I unbuckle my belt and peel my gown off. It lays in a w
et pile on the seat next to me, my ruined diploma somewhere on the floorboard below.

  It’s way busier in the restaurant on a Saturday, and I lead my parents to the back corner booth. I’m not sure if I hope that Hannah’s working today or not. She was pretty mouthy around just me. I don’t know if my parents will find her quite as endearing as I did.

  “Oh, Bishop. You can’t blame this on me.” She appears at the end of the table holding her little pad of paper in one hand and pointing her pen at me with the other. “We don’t even have enough coffee to get you that wet.” Her cheeks grow red as she looks toward the other people in my booth. “Sorry. Oliver came in last week and I spilled coffee all over him. Just a little joke.” She tilts her head and smiles brightly at my parents. “Mr. Bishop! How’re things on the mean highways?”

  “Seedy,” he jokes. “Hardest job I’ve ever had. The crime around here is astounding.”

  Hannah nods like she knows. “All the meth?”

  My dad’s eyes grow wide. “I was joking.”

  She grins. “Me, too.” Turning to me, she points again. “So, really, what’s the story?”

  My mom answers instead. “It started raining at graduation. Oliver didn’t get out of the rain . . . in time.”

  “Gotcha. You gotta be careful, you know. Don’t want to get sick. Then who would come and occupy my booth?” She takes our orders and disappears into the kitchen.

  “I almost didn’t recognize her,” my dad notes. He looks to my mom. “Didn’t she used to have long blonde hair instead of the shorter brown? I think I pulled her over one time.”

  “She said she dyed her hair when she went to college,” I offer, trying to change the subject from her past traffic violations.

  Dad nods his head and glances over at Mom. “Did you see her father when you were at the hospital?”

  My mom nods, too, her right arm slipping over his as she leans her head on his shoulder. “He was there. I said hello.”